


Paris, Revisited

by DracoMaleficium



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (it makes sense with the comic just trust me), Accidental Blood Drinking, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Batman Europa, Behind the Scenes, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Sappy, Terminal Illnesses, Virus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/pseuds/DracoMaleficium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during "Batman: Europa," after the events in Paris. Batman and the Joker decide to take a break before flying to Rome, but then  Joker's health takes a dramatic turn for the worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris, Revisited

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first of all, if you want actual quality "Europa" fics you'll go and read robatics's ["You're My Excuse to Travel"](http://http://archiveofourown.org/works/5595838). What I have here is a pitiful attempt to play in the "Europa" sandbox, and it's a not-at-all subtle piece of self-indulgent whump done mostly because I wanted to be productive and none of my bigger projects were cooperating, and because sometimes you need to just let it go. Soooooo, you know, keep that in mind.
> 
> In my defense, the source text really encourages that kind of thing, so there. DC writers made me do it.
> 
> Please heed the tags - the entire thing is basically a sappy melodramatic near-death experience and deathbed confessions and then hurt/comfort. There's no actual character death, but it might still be upsetting.
> 
> Also, the ending? Once again, DC writers. They did it first. I'm only running away with their nonsense. God bless "Europa." 
> 
> Many, many thanks to Mitzvah for all the beta and help with wrangling this unwieldy piece of angst into shape!

Joker is right about one thing — the apartment the ‘Cirque’ provided for them really does smell like shit.

Bruce stands by the window and tries to listen to the city. Probably not a good idea with the virus playing billiard with his senses, whispering that if he just closes his eyes, he’ll be back in Gotham, and oh, the temptation is so strong… But even sick as he is, Bruce thinks he wouldn’t let himself be taken in. Paris doesn’t sound like Gotham. The resemblance might fool some, but not someone who spent his entire adult life fine-tuning his ears to pick out the faintest disturbance in the nightly symphonies of his city. This, here — this isn’t even the right melody.

It’s all moot, anyway, because what Bruce is _really_ listening to is the shower running. The pipes must be a century old, their tortured groans vibrating in Bruce’s ears much more loudly than they’re supposed to, and it’s probably the virus, amplifying the noise just as it blurs the city lights laid out below and tilts the world with vertigo.

That, or maybe Bruce’s ears are only now beginning to recover from the assault of the bells of Notre Dame.

The headache, at least, is probably not the work of the virus. Bruce hasn’t slept in days, and he is _tired._

They need to get going. Bruce itches with it, burning up with more than just the fever. They should be out there, in the Batwing, flying south, chasing their leads and not _wasting time they don’t have anymore._ The virus doesn’t rest. It gnaws away at Bruce with every passing minute, nibbling through his sense of reality like a termite through wood, leaving a network of holes that will only keep growing until Bruce no longer knows which way is up. He had a taste of it tonight, the panic of not being able to trust his own mind like a splash of ice cubes down his back, and even now, hours later, he clings to the ancient wooden frame of the window, cold, shaken, _terrified_. He cannot let himself fall any deeper. He can’t let the fever burn clean through his sanity. They’re on borrowed time already, and if they go to sleep now, who knows if they’ll even wake up?

But tonight has also pushed them to their breaking point, and that’s the cold, hard truth. Bruce doesn’t trust himself to pilot the Batwing. The way he is now, with lights littering his vision in colorful specks as though he’d stared into the sun for too long, his thoughts struggling not to scramble every which way like a spooked flock of pigeons the moment he loses the thread of concentration, his muscles too slow, his reflexes sluggish, lumbering behind… He’d crash them just as soon as get them to Rome, to say nothing of his ability to fight. He’s having enough trouble just standing upright, and the longer he tries, the harder the exhaustion tries to turn his legs into mush. Autopilot can only get them so far, and right now…

Bruce tries to flex the fingers of his right hand, curls them, presses. Pain flares up, throbs like fire licking just under his skin. Half-dried blood cracks along the creases on his palm. The wound burns, but Bruce welcomes it — it lends some sharpness to the fuzzy mass that is his brain.

He sighs, because there is nothing for it. They _need_ to rest.

“Penny-one,” he calls into the comm link, a rough, barely human whisper he himself barely recognizes. In the bathroom the shower keeps running, and outside, the world bleeds into a flickering, undulating ripple of lights.

“Oh thank God,” Alfred replies instantly. “You’re still alive.”

“You know I can’t keep in touch,” Bruce struggles. The sound of Alfred’s voice, distant and echoey though it is, helps. He blinks and some of the blurriness gains an edge.

“Of course, but I worry. Are you all right? What about the clown?”

“He’s in the shower. It’s why I’m calling. We’re having a short stop in Paris and then we’ll be on our way to Rome.”

“Oh dear.” Alfred sounds shaken, his voice worn thin with concern. “That’s… quite the hike. And you sound like you’ve been put through the grinder already.”

Bruce takes a deep breath, blinking again to chase away the surge of dizziness. “Yeah, we… we have. Whoever did this fought us on top of the Notre Dame. We barely made it out. Nina… didn’t.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” Alfred says sincerely. “That poor girl.”

The next breath Bruce takes feels like it’s laced with tiny little blades that shred his throat on the way down. He sighs. “Yeah.”

 _That poor girl._ Dead on a heap of burning coals just to deliver a message. To make a point. If Joker wasn’t right beside him the whole time, dying just like Bruce is, Bruce wouldn’t have had any trouble pinning down the suspect, but as it is…

“… you, sir? Sir?”

Bruce groans, squeezing his eyes shut. He tries to pierce through the fog to find the thread of Alfred’s voice. His mind feels sharper than it did down in the Parisian sewers or on the cathedral roof, but…

“I’m sorry,” he manages, “I must have zoned out.”

“I suppose that answers my question,” Alfred says quietly. “I was asking if you were all right.”

“I’ll pull through,” Bruce promises. “It’s not quite so bad now. The annoying thing is that Joker acts like he isn’t affected at all, but maybe that’s because —”

Laughter. From the bathroom. Bruce freezes, and on the other end of the connection, so does Alfred.

“I… see what you mean,” Alfred says tersely, but Bruce hisses for him to be quiet and keeps listening. Joker hadn’t laughed once since they left the cathedral and staggered back to this dump, and if anything, he’d actuallly looked nearly as exhausted as Bruce felt, falling quiet and only responding with ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when prompted. Back then Bruce welcomed this change with relief, but hearing the laughter now… it worries him.

The water never stops running, but the laughter builds and breaks into a cough, and then…

Screams?

No, not screams. Cries. And the sound of a body crashing to the floor.

“I gotta go,” Bruce snaps, breaking the link just as he pulls together what little strength he still has and forces his way through the unlocked door into the steamed-up bathroom.

Joker is still in the bathtub, splayed there on the bottom in a tangle of limbs that eerily resembles a broken wooden puppet. The shower head lies next to him, still on. He doesn’t seem to have hit his head against the edge of the tub, but his eyes are closed, and soft moans of pain struggle past his half-open mouth.

Shit.

“Joker?” Bruce calls out, coming up to the bathtub. He turns the brass knob to stop the water and reaches out to part Joker’s wet hair, searching for injury.

There is none. That means Joker must have blacked out, which, ha, so much for Bruce’s theories about the virus. He calls the clown’s name again, reaching under his chin to tilt his head up, but Joker only manages to crack one eye halfway open before collapsing again, naked white skin breaking into gooseflesh.

… Right.

Joker’s pulse is weak, but there, jumping faintly under Bruce’s touch. His breath is shallow, and his face is burning up. The shower has washed away most of the makeup, which now streaks in sad smudges down Joker’s face, and the lipstick is mostly faded, revealing lips which are nearly just as red but burnt, cracked, scarred by chemicals into permanent disfigurement.

Bruce has seen them like this up close before. The sight isn’t pretty, and judging by the lipstick, Joker thinks so too.

He’s still alive, but this…

Doesn’t look good.

Bruce takes a moment to consider the situation, careful to not let his eyes linger on Joker’s private parts. Then, mind made up, he unclasps the cape and gets to wrapping it around Joker’s wet, shivering body, working as quickly and efficiently as possible and touching as little as he can.

Only then does he try to lift the clown, and carries him back to the one room in the apartment and towards the smelly, rickety double bed. He deposits Joker there and sits down himself, the springs groaning in protest under both their weights.

Even this much strain is enough to leave Bruce winded, and he needs a moment to wait out the spinning in his head. Jesus, words cannot express how much he loathes being in this situation. Unable to trust his own body, his own mind. Whoever infected them with the virus is going to regret ever cooking up this idea…

He turns, and looks at Joker’s slack, gaunt face.

“Saved me the trouble of knocking you out,” he tells him softly, touching the knockout gas hidden in his belt. He was going to use it to grant himself and Joker some reprieve, at least a semblance of rest while they fly to Rome, but as it is, that’s no longer in the cards. He rolls his shoulders, now relieved of the weight of the cape. His joints crack, and he groans in relief, and briefly, he wonders…

… Damn it. He’s gone nearly a week now without taking off the cowl. His face is sweating, the rubber slowly melting into skin, and he needs to _breathe_. There’s no guarantee that Joker won’t suddenly jump him, but not even he can fake a fever this convincing, and Bruce is ready to give it a shot, if only for a few minutes of relief.

“Joker?” he calls again, and only gets a sleepy hum in response. Joker doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes, but his breath looks to be evening out. He looks cozy enough wrapped up in Bruce’s cape, warm, and seemingly content to stay that way even despite the sweat still glistening on his skin and the red flush of fever in his cheeks. Fine by Bruce. It doesn’t look too serious, anyway, and maybe Joker is simply as exhausted as Bruce is. If he’s asleep, then that’s for the best for both of them, and anyway, it’s not like Bruce can do anything to alleviate the symptoms for him anymore than he can do so for himself.

He should know — he’s tried.

He pushes himself off the bed to sit on the floor by the window again, and with one last look at the clown, he takes off the cowl.

 _God,_ , that feels good. Air, cold, blessed air curls against his sweaty skin and it’s like at least half of his own fever lifts, just like that. Bruce sighs in relief and swallows gulps of smelly Parisian air as he closes his eyes, finally liberated from relentless, suffocating pressure.

Just for a few minutes, he tells himself. Just for a little while. It’s his only chance to feel the wind on his face, and he’s just going to… he’s just gonna…

He keeps his eyes closed, rests his head against the flaking wall, and finally lets himself breathe.

It lasts maybe fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Not quite a doze but not alertness either, Bruce’s mind settling into this warm, familiar drift in-between which sometimes carries him through long, rainy nights on top of gargoyles when there isn’t any crime to stop but Bruce doesn’t feel like coming home either. It’s not easy rest. He keeps seeing Nina on the coals, and gets hot sweats from the flashes of nearly losing his mind out there, and feels like falling until his hand burns. A parade of pale faces distorted into harlequin grins ripple in front of his vision, painted, rapt, worshiping a green-haired ghoul who turns to Bruce with a smile whispering, _See? They love me. Why can’t you?_

And then he’s falling again, until a noise jolts him back into the world.

On the bed, the springs squeaking in protest, Joker is moving.

Bruce unglues his eyes open. He tries to rub the exhaustion away and struggles to stand. He calls out into the gloom, “Joker?”

There’s a whimper, soft, hoarse, pained. The mass of black on the bed writhes, and two pale feet peek out from under the cape, the toes splayed apart as if in strain.

Slowly, Bruce starts picking his way over to the bed. His legs feel like they don’t quite belong to him, like he’s trying to wade through some sort of sludge, but eventually he manages to grab the iron frame and, supporting himself on that, he sits on the edge of the mattress.

He hesitates, and then touches one skinny leg over the cape. “Joker.”

Joker whimpers again, and giggles softly, and his back tries to arch off the bed. He’s clutching the cape close to his chest. His eyes stay closed, and his mouth is shut tight.

Huh. Bruce’s face pulls tight in concern, and he shifts so that he can check Joker’s temperature. Still burning up, even hotter than he was in the tub. The worry turns cold, and Bruce finds Joker’s shoulder and shakes.

“Hey,” he urges, “hey, Joker. Wake up.”

It’s time they got going, anyway, Bruce decides, and presses the button to summon the Batwing. Then he tries to shake the clown again, and when that doesn’t break Joker out of whatever feverish reverie he’s caught in, Bruce moves his hand up to his face…

It’s streaked wet with tears.

 _Is that what I have to look forward to?_ Bruce wonders with a hollow sense of detachment, examining the wetness now glistening on his glove. _Dissolving into a crying, incoherent mess in front of my worst enemy?_ Joker seemed fine before — for his standards, anyway — certainly less affected than Bruce, but this… this is unraveling. This is a collapse. Maybe it’s the nature of his virus, Bruce wonders, and feels colder still as he follows the thought to its conclusion. Maybe his own is eating away at him gradually, while Joker’s hit all at once, which would mean…

His heart picks up speed. If he’s right, they really don’t have much time.

He is just about done picking the writhing, gasping Joker into his arms when the Batwing makes its descent, coming to hover patiently just outside the window. Bruce slings Joker over one shoulder and struggles towards it, weak and unsteady on his feet. His vision is starting to swim again. Not good. Just a few more steps…

His boot collides with something on the way. Bruce looks down, and his heart stops.

His cowl.

Good God, he forgot. He was ready to let Joker see his face, and he _forgot_.

His breath comes in short gasps, and the panic lurks just a heartbeat away. Bruce tries to fend it off as he bends to pick up the cowl, careful not to let Joker fall. It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s _fine_. Joker didn’t see anything. It’s the virus. The sooner they get to Rome, the sooner…

His hands still shake, and he almost missteps and hurls them both down onto the street on his way to the Batwing.

Once inside, he lays Joker down on the floor — for now — and adjusts course for Rome. Only when the autopilot takes over does he return to the clown, and tries to rouse him once again, more urgently now.

Joker is laugh-crying, quiet little gasps and sobs that sound painful to the ears. He won’t let go of the cape, clutching at it like it’s a lifeline. He calls out, “Bats. Bats. Bats.”

“I’m here,” Bruce assures him, grasping to slip the cowl back over his face even though every inch of his skin rebels against it. “Come on, Joker, wake up!”

He’s getting scared, now. This doesn’t look good. Joker’s face is flaring in heat, sweat breaking out to trail down his temple and glue the wet hair to his forehead. His frail body twists with every throaty gasp and cough struggling out. He isn’t responding, not even when Bruce pulls him close, modesty be damned. And the thing is, Bruce doesn’t know anything about the virus. Not the effects, not the way to ease its symptoms, _nothing_ , and come to think of it, is Joker taking any meds? Presumably not, Bruce never saw him take anything during their nights on the road, but what if he is, and what if Bruce administers something that triggers the adverse effect, and what if…

Bruce forces one of Joker’s eyelids open, sees the pupil contracted into a tiny unseeing dot and rolling back into his head, and that’s when he finally realizes.

…What if this is it? What if the thing Bruce is witnessing is Joker’s death throes? Whoever constructed that robot up on Notre Dame did say he’d expected one of them to be dead by now. Maybe Joker’s body is only now giving in, and he’s… he’s…

Oh God.

Bruce’s eyes go wide, and he clutches the spasming body tight to himself, and the enormity of that thought seems to freeze every drop of blood in his body.

He has tried to imagine a world without the Joker in it before. Sometimes he even manages to convince himself he’d want that world. But now, now that it suddenly jolts from an abstract daydream into sharp, cold reality, everything inside him screams _No no NO_ and he holds Joker even closer as if he could leak his own life into the clown, keep his soul inside if he just holds on hard enough.

 _You cannot have him_ , he wants to snarl, _not him too_. Not another pillar that, like it or not, has come to hold up Bruce’s life. Not another constant that he’s come to rely on, to almost take for granted, to shape his life around. Not someone who’s been there from the very beginning of this madness, keeping him going, keeping him on edge, keeping the balance…

“Come on,” he hisses through a bile in his throat, “come _on_!”

This can’t be happening. It just can’t. The possibility of his own death is one thing — it’s something that Bruce faces every single night, just another part of the game and always has been. Yes, technically the virus has brought the specter of it that much closer, but even then, and especially when it was no longer just him but him and Joker, Bruce never really entertained the idea that they might fail. That one of them might not make it. Especially not Joker, who seemed to be doing so much better, who just hours ago was flying on Bruce’s back and joking, _I’m sorry, did you just say hold me tight?_

Joker’s breath is getting worse, shallower. He isn’t laughing anymore. He can’t seem to find the air. And neither can Bruce, not when he sees that and imagines the moment Joker’s heart stops beating, not when he can’t seem to do anything about it, not when the idea of suddenly finding himself in a world where the Joker is really and truly dead is too terrifying to contemplate.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Bruce demands — pleads. “Tell me what I can do to help. Joker. Tell me.”

Maybe it’s not as bad as that, he tries to convince himself as he fights to keep the paralysis of fear from clouding his mind completely. Maybe it’s just temporary, and he just — he needs to get Joker warm, his body is seeping cold through Bruce’s gloves and he needs to get him warm, and then it will be fine…

He casts around for something to wrap Joker in. Joker coughs, and for a moment at least, falls quiet, which is somehow even worse. It means he really doesn’t have any strength left and has to save his breath, and he struggles for it like something is clogging his throat, or maybe squeezing his lungs. Bruce closes his eyes against the sight and once again tries to rally and figure out what to _do_. Think, he chants, think, there must be something…

“Bats,” Joker whispers, and his body twitches under the cape like he’s struggling to move. He coughs, sputters, struggles to open his eyes. “Baby…?”

Finally, green eyes meet his, hazy, confused, unfocused. His forehead is still burning and his breath comes out ragged, wheezing. He moves as if to lift his hand, and Bruce catches it before it can collapse without even thinking about it. Joker whines quietly, shivering, angling closer to Bruce, and then he whispers, “Say, cap’n, I don’t feel so good.”

“We’re on our way to Rome,” Bruce assures him. “We’ll be there in an hour and a half. Just, hold on. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what you need.”

“I don…” Joker tries, blinking hard. “I don’ think I’m gonna… ‘s _funny_ …”

He tries to smile, and blood trickles out of the corner of his acid-eaten mouth.

“No,” Bruce pleads.

Joker’s fingers twitch in his hand. They don’t try to break free.

“What do you need,” Bruce insists. “Water? I can get you water. We need to get you warm. I’m going to get your bag and you can pick the clothes you want, the winter coat isn’t completely burnt, maybe it’ll —”

He tries to move but Joker is a dead weight on his lap, resisting. His head is moving as if to shake.

“Hey now, han’some,” Joker rasps over the bloodied ghost of a smile, “let’s have none a’ that. ‘S fine. I don’t… I really don’t mind. You can keep me warm.”

At first Bruce wants to protest. He cannot simply accept defeat. That’s when he remembers that the suit has a heating mechanism for bad weather, and he wants to slap himself for taking so long to think of that. He activates it at once, and as soon as the warmth starts to spill over his chest Joker sighs, the very first sound he’s made since the fever started that doesn’t sound like he’s in pain.

“I really should get you water though,” Bruce says, but Joker only tries to cling to him tighter.

“Forget it,” he wheezes. “Just… stay here, mmmkay? With me.”

“But, Joker —”

“Please, baby. It won’t help anyway.”

“You don’t know that. Hang on —” He stretches, reaching for the water caches. They’re just close enough that he can get to them if he only scoots a little, but he has to disturb Joker in the process, and the clown whines quietly, clinging to him in protest.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says distractedly, bringing one of the plastic bottles and trying to find a position to unscrew the cap without letting go of Joker. Finally he manages, and rests the lid of the bottle against Joker’s mouth. “Here.”

Joker groans. “Must I?”

“Just give it a try. You’ll get dehydrated.”

Joker rolls his eyes but obliges, and lets Bruce feed him little sips which spill over his mouth and down his chin.

Keep him warm, Bruce thinks, just — keep him warm. And don’t think that this return to lucidity goes hand in hand with his skin gradually turning a faded ash-gray.

“Always liked the cape,” Joker whispers into his chest between sips. “Smells nice. Goes whoosh. Looks like ink.”

Bruce breathes out, long and deep. He replies, “Glad to hear it.”

“We had fun, didn’t we, Bats?”

“Stop talking,” Bruce barks, unable to keep his voice from stuttering this time. “Just — stop. Try to rest. Drink. Maybe this will pass.”

“Remember that time at Ace Chemicals?” Joker’s voice cracks, raises into something hardly above a whisper. “My opening number… grand, wasn’t it?”

“Joker.”

“We had… fun, right?”

“ _No_ , we did not have fun,” Bruce snaps, trying not to hear the desperate edge in Joker’s voice. “Stop talking in the past tense.” When he tries to get Joker to drink more, Joker pulls a face and turns away, and struggles to push the bottle out of Bruce’s hand. Bruce takes a deep breath and surrenders, putting the bottle down. He pleads, “Joker, I mean it. Stop talking like you’re —”

“Dying?” A cough rattles Joker’s body, and he shivers, and curls his free hand against the bat symbol on Bruce’s chest. “But I do believe I am, sweet cheeks. Sorry. I think it might be… curtain time.”

“No, it’s not. It’s _not_. We’re going to beat this. You’ll be fine.”

“Say, love, how’bout… a kiss goodnight?”

“You’re impossible,” Bruce manages, and then he blinks, and his throat is clogged. “You don’t need one,” he insists. “You’re going to get better soon, and then we’ll…”

The fingers in his hand twitch again, weakly. Joker’s eyes bear into him, all too bright with fever but, for once, earnest.

 _Please_ , they beg. There’s no hope anywhere in there. None of his usual showy flirtatiousness. Just calm, quiet resignation, and the certainty that this time around, there is no way out.

Bruce swallows. His heart is racing, and shrinking in helplessness, and he doesn’t know what to do. This doesn’t feel real, and yet it is, it’s _too_ real and he can’t seem to process what it all means, that this really might be it, that he’s too late, that this… that Joker…

“You’re not actually giving up, are you?” Bruce challenges, grasping for anything to keep Joker focused on him. “I thought you were stronger than that. You took down a flaming monster from the inside just last night, and now you’re going to let a damn fever do you in?” When Joker doesn’t respond, only keeps smiling that weak, sad smile, Bruce decides to change tack. Maybe this will work. “You keep saying we need each other,” he says. “Well, maybe… maybe that’s true. Maybe I need you alive. So you need to fight this, Joker. For me.”

“You’re sweet,” Joker croaks. “Appreciate it, love. But let’s… face the music. I don’t… think I’ll be able to… tango with you again. I honestly don’t mind. I just. I just want a kiss.”

A kiss. After everything, after an entire lifetime of blood and pain and madness, that’s all he wants. To send him off, just… a kiss, for the road. Whatever that may be.

And in the end, Bruce thinks, it’s the simplicity of it that undoes him. He looks into Joker’s eyes and the world falls away, leaving only a pale dying man wrapped tight in his cape, asking to be kissed before he closes his eyes for good.

Is that really all he’d ask for? Is that really all that the two of them would, in the end, come down to? All of Joker’s barbs and double-entendres, all of his grand plans and bids for Batman’s attention, all the — flash, performance, crime, murder, blood. For this? For something as small, as simple?

No, Bruce thinks. It’s never small nor simple. But he also thinks, maybe, somehow, he understands. Right here, right now, maybe a kiss is something he _can_ give, even if he cannot give Joker anything else, and maybe Joker knows that, and maybe that is enough.

“Okay,” he whispers, letting his head drop lower, pulling Joker up. “But I’m not sending you off. Do you understand? I’m only doing this to give you something to fight for. We’re not done, Joker.”

“Oh darling,” Joker tries. “We both know that… you wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t… clockin’ out.”

“Shut up,” Bruce tells him, and touches his mouth to Joker’s ruined lips.

It’s supposed to be a short, chaste kiss. And it is, at first. Just a touch of the lips, a gentle press, and that’s it. Bruce does it, and then pulls away.

Joker is looking up at him from hooded eyes, a wasted shadow of himself. Too tired to hold on, and yet, still trying to smile. Still trying to keep his gaze on Bruce, like Bruce is the only thing that matters, the only thing possibly worth looking at.

The only thing worth loving.

Bruce’s heart aches, and he leans down to taste his smile again.

And then it’s like someone’s pressed stop on reality. Because once it starts. Once Bruce _lets_ himself do this. Once he tastes the blood on Joker’s mouth, and tastes the cracked, uneven texture, and realizes just what has happened…

It’s not exactly an out-of-body experience. Not like dissociating. Bruce is still very much there in his own mind, still conscious and aware, but the thing is, he can’t make himself _care_ about where he is anymore. He doesn’t want to start second-guessing. Doesn’t want to think. His mouth lingers, and his tongue touches blood, and he isn’t revolted. He doesn’t pull away.

Joker’s mouth opens up for him, a silent invitation, and Bruce lets himself accept.

The kiss goes deep but slow. They’re both too weak, too reluctant to rush it. Small noises fly out of Joker’s mouth into Bruce’s, hums and sighs, but Bruce barely hears them, too busy tasting warmth and blood and feeling Joker’s cracked lips move against his. When he swallows, Joker’s blood and saliva go down with his own. Even then he doesn’t pull away, not by much, and then he leans right back in, letting Joker’s tongue touch his own.

And the thing is, he keeps expecting to feel disgust. He waits for the moment when it will kickstart a chain reaction of guilt, resentment, remorse, another sin to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the clarity never comes, and it doesn’t feel like he’s kissing a murderer.

It doesn’t feel like betrayal.

Instead, when he feels Joker swallowing without ever breaking the kiss, and when he listens to Joker breathing shallowly through his nose, it almost feels like peace.

Or maybe if not peace, then perhaps reconciliation, not so much with Joker but with the part of Bruce that has, quietly but persistently, known that something like this could happen. Maybe even wanted it, and snuck tantalizing images into Bruce’s dreams when he least expected it. The part responsible for _What if_ , the part that never let him rest until he knew exactly where Joker was and what he was doing, the part that pushed him to jump off roofs after the clown every single time without fail.

The part that wanted to believe that when Joker talked about love, he meant it.

Well, that’s one question answered. Bruce may have laughed, if not for the fact that his mouth is too busy desperately trying to keep Joker with him by kissing promises into him. All of this, all the murder and pain and agony, all those years. All this doubt and self-hate. Just for this.

 _And now you’re too late_ , his thoughts whisper, and to shut them up he kisses all the harder, as though that alone could keep the virus from eating through Joker’s heart. As though if he only keeps kissing, Joker will stay with him. As though that could keep them both alive — or as if Bruce could somehow kiss away the disease burning through Joker and swallow it himself, so they might both go out together. Like Joker said they should. And maybe he was right.

He’s stopped counting the seconds away. It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is every single moment of Joker kissing back, and breathing into Bruce, and biting down hard enough to draw blood from Bruce’s lip like he wants to brand him one last time, and his hands coming up to cup Bruce’s face to pull him down, and…

… and. Bruce opens his eyes to see Joker clinging to him and kissing back with a passion a man in his state shouldn’t be capable of, and feels the urgency of Joker’s hands cradling his face, and those hands, those hands aren’t burning anymore. Neither is the skin of his face, nor the inside of his mouth, nor his lips. It no longer feels like kissing a furnace, and the cold sweats seem to have stopped, and that, along with the sharp pain in Bruce’s bleeding lip, is what finally pokes through the fog and makes him take notice.

Because there’s _life_ in Joker again. Life, and energy, and passion, slowly trickling back and clearing his skin from the sickly gray back into what for him passes for normal. Strength seems to be crawling back into his muscles. When Bruce, careful, breathless with hope, spreads his gloved palm against Joker’s frail chest he feels that the heartbeat has steadied too, and so has Joker’s breath, going in and out through his nose now in something that’s almost close to a regular rhythm. In fact, the longer they kiss the better he seems to be getting, and once Bruce starts paying attention he realizes that his own muscles are beginning to feel strong again too, and his mind is clearing, and has been for some time now.

In fact, he almost feels…

Healthy?

Shaken, Bruce breaks the kiss and looks into Joker’s eyes.

They’re not quite clear yet but much more focused than before, and look up at him with a brightness that no longer has anything to do with the fever. His hands press down on the nape of Bruce’s neck, urging him back down.

“Come on, baby,” he breathes, “I have a few more in me. Let’s make it count.”

He tries to pull himself up to claim Bruce’s mouth again, but Bruce keeps him at a distance, his lips still tingling from the kiss and the bite. “Joker,” he asks through the dizzying rush of _health_ , “how do you feel?”

“In love,” Joker says immediately, and Bruce almost snorts as he shakes his head.

“I mean your health,” he corrects, and brings his hand up to Joker’s forehead. It’s still hot but nowhere near the burning of before, and he sounds almost like his healthy self again, and — Bruce’s heart stutters. “Your fever has broken,” he whispers.

Joker stares at him, and his eyes go wide. “Huh,” he murmurs. He licks his lips, looking thoughtful, and then pinches his own shoulder. “Well whadya know,” he whistles, “I think you may be right!”

“You weren’t,” Bruce starts, and then decides not to finish that sentence. No. There’s no way Joker could possibly be faking that. No one can fake a fever this serious, and the color of his face —

He shudders. He doesn’t want to ever see Joker looking like that again.

Besides, _he_ is feeling much better too, almost as if the virus had never entered his system in the first place, and that makes Joker’s miraculous recovery doubly plausible.

Even if none of that makes any sense.

“You seem much better too,” Joker observes, quirking an eyebrow at him almost as it the words were meant as an accusation.

“I _feel_ much better,” Bruce agrees. “I don’t know how, but —”

 _But you’re no longer dying_ , he finishes in his mind, and as soon as he verbalizes that for himself, as soon as he realizes and accepts what nearly happened and what they have somehow averted, the rush of blinding, overwhelming relief threatens to steal his breath all over again.

He looks at Joker, and thinks, _Christ, you’re alive. You’re not dying. You’re going to be okay. We both are, and things are going to stay the same, and my world is not going to collapse._

He tries to take a breath, to say something. To keep it together. What comes out instead is a sob, and all at once he finds himself being cradled against a naked white chest, one that’s still sweaty and flushed but _breathing_. And in that chest, a heart that’s a steady beat, constant, reassuring, drumming against the nightmare that Bruce was forced to make his peace with just minutes ago. Bruce closes his eyes and he couldn’t have stopped the tears from flowing now even if he tried to because it’s all too much, it’s too much, and he’d held himself together somehow while the nightmare lasted but now that it’s over it’s like the hand squeezing him has released, and when he breathes out the air shudders on its way out.

“Oh, darling,” Joker coos quietly, hugging him. “You sweet, sweet darling.”

“I don’t understand,” Bruce confesses. “I thought you were — I was sure —”

“So was I,” Joker whispers after a moment, uncharacteristically sombre. “I thought I was a goner! But then, baby, do you know what you did? You brought me back with the power of your true love’s kiss, and no mistake!”

He laughs, instantly switching gears with seemingly no trouble at all, and Bruce is tempted to laugh along with him because for once, this really is something too absurd to take in. He’s feeling too much all at once, and he’s choking on it, and his heart hasn’t settled down from the fear that’s still much too real, and —

“Dear heart, you’re a mess,” Joker whispers fondly. “You’re going to suffocate. Here, let me —” His hands move to the clasps of the cowl, and start pressing.

Bruce jerks in his arms. “What —”

Before he can pull away, the cowl is off, and clatters to the floor. Joker sits back and coyly averts his eyes, like a Victorian bride at the first peek at her husband on their wedding night.

“It’s okay,” he assures Bruce, “I won’t look.”

Bruce stares at him.

“How the fuck,” he demands, “did you know how to do that?”

“I spied on you,” Joker confesses with a shrug, still looking away as he clutches Bruce’s cape to his chest. “I follow you around sometimes when you’re working and I got artist’s block.”

Bruce’s chest goes cold. “You mean to say —”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I got a peek of your face before.” He smirks. “Ooops?”

He giggles, bringing a hand up to his mouth.

A mouth Bruce was kissing not minutes ago.

Bruce stares at it, and wants to scream.

“Oh come on, darling, it’s not that big of a deal,” Joker claims. “I never told anyone, did I? That would totally ruin our fun. _Relax._ ”

Bruce swallows, hard. “You actually expect me to —”

“Why don’t we go back to the part where you’re so happy I’m alive that you cry on my bosom?” Joker suggests, following it up with a chuckle. “I liked that part. Very flattering.”

Bruce sits back, letting his arms drop to the floor. He wonders if this night will ever end.

“You bastard,” he manages, “you dirty fucking bastard.”

“Hey,” Joker protests, “not fair. I did take a shower, didn’t I? Which is more than I can say for you. Oh, stop that.” He breaks his promise and looks Bruce straight in the eye, and scoots closer, opening up his arms again without the faintest hint of hesitation. “Come here. You did save my life, didn’t you? Let me do this grateful damsel thing properly.”

He reaches out to hug Bruce’s head close again, and, stiffly, Bruce lets him, mostly because he doesn’t have the presence of mind to protest anymore. This night has already turned into something way beyond what even he can handle, and he’s going to need time to process it all — later.

Right now, he simply lets Joker stroke through his hair. The long fingers are gentle like he never imagined they could be, and it feels good, especially when Joker starts to lightly scratch along his path. Joker’s other hand settles on Bruce’s cheek and traces the dried tear tracks, which now stick to Bruce’s skin like dry clay. And best of all, Joker’s heartbeat is right there, by Bruce’s ear. Firm. Steady. Bruce closes his eyes and lets the sound of it drown out everything else, just for now. Just for a moment. Just while this moment lasts.

_God. God._

“Batsy?” Joker asks eventually.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I feel quite right yet. I think I need some more of your healing touch.”

Bruce breathes out, and finally lets out the strained, slightly wet chuckle that has been building in him for what feels like the whole night. He whispers, “You really are impossible.”

“I’m a terminally ill clown in love,” Joker corrects him gently. “And I need my medicine.”

Bruce pulls himself up and considers. He knew the outside world wouldn’t be long calling for them, and now it seems it’s time to face it.

“That’s the thing,” he says, trying to ignore that Joker’s hand still hasn’t left his cheek. “What did we do, exactly? How the hell was _kissing_ supposed to heal us?”

Joker shrugs. “I told ya. True love’s kiss.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s what our mastermind had planned.” Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose to will his exhausted mind to concentrate. “I’m going to need blood samples,” he decides. “From both of us. I’m going to need to scan them, and analyze them, and maybe then we’ll have an idea what —”

“Must you do this now?” Joker pouts. “Can’t we worry about all that once we actually get to Rome? It won’t be long now and, darling, I have no delusions, I know that as soon as we get back to Gotham we’ll be right back to our regularly scheduled cat and mouse games. Which, you know I love them and I’m not gonna complain. All I ask is…” He hesitates, then lets go of Bruce’s face to instead go for one of his gloved hands. He lifts it to his mouth and bites down gently on Bruce’s index finger, kisses it, and then starts to kiss his way slowly knuckle by knuckle. “Could we slow down a bit and enjoy the honeymoon?” he suggests, looking up at Bruce through his lashes. “While we feel good enough for it? And who knows, maybe if we keep making out we’ll feel even better? I did just almost die, you know. It was very dramatic. I need your help getting over the shock.”

He raises an eyebrow and winks, and Bruce rolls his eyes. He really does need to get on the blood samples. Whatever just happened needs to be examined, and fast, so they have an angle to work in Rome, but…

Joker’s lips are still planting little kisses over his glove, and something in Bruce kind of… falls loose. It’s a warm feeling, warmer than he’s prepared for. And Joker’s right — as soon as they get back to Gotham, all this will be over. The masks will come back on. Things will go back to normal, and the kiss he let them share will join all the other memories Bruce hardly lets himself revisit, and that…

Suddenly, Rome doesn’t feel quite so urgent anymore.

“Is that your hypothesis?” he asks, curling his hand around Joker’s and slowly coaxing the clown closer. “That kissing made us better?”

“Yes it is,” Joker confirms, delighted at their proximity. Bruce touches his face and Joker sighs against him, looking both peaceful and eager and altogether too alluring for Bruce’s good.

“Fine,” he whispers against both Joker’s lips and his better judgment. “Let’s test it.”

Joker giggles, and leans in. And if Bruce’s hands still shake when he pulls the gloves off and runs his fingers down Joker’s back, well.

Joker never brings it up.


End file.
